"You know her, then, I suppose?"
"Everybody in the house knows her. There ain't many the likes o' her as lives wi' the likes of us. You go right up to the top. I don't know if she's in, but a'most any one'll be able to tell you. I ain't been home yet."
My father thanked him, and we entered the house, and began to ascend. The stair was very much worn and rather dirty, and some of the banisters were broken away, but the walls were tolerably clean. Half-way up we met a little girl with tangled hair and tattered garments, carrying a bottle.
"Do you know, my dear," said my father to her, "whether Miss Clare is at home?"
"I dunno," she answered. "I dunno who you mean. I been mindin' the baby. He ain't well. Mother says his head's bad. She's a-going up to tell grannie, and see if she can't do suthin' for him. You better ast mother.—Mother!" she called out—"here's a lady an' a gen'lem'."
"You go about yer business, and be back direckly," cried a gruff voice from somewhere above.
"That's mother," said the child, and ran down the stair.
When we reached the second floor, there stood a big fat woman on the landing, with her face red, and her hair looking like that of a doll ill stuck on. She did not speak, but stood waiting to see what we wanted.
"I'm told Miss Clare lives here," said my father. "Can you tell me, my good woman, whether she's at home?"
"I'm neither good woman nor bad woman," she returned in an insolent tone.